


England's pleasant pastures seen

by squiddz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley takes Aziraphale for a drive, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, They're just very in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 13:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21100286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddz/pseuds/squiddz
Summary: Crowley drifted into consciousness to the muted sounds of London morning traffic. He shifted a little on the old-fashioned down-filled mattress; he still wasn't entirely used to Aziraphale's bed, which was no where near as big or luxurious as the one in his own flat. But there were some perks to it, namely the warm body resting beside him. He smiled lazily as a hand ran through his hair, and he finally opened his golden eyes to look at Aziraphale lying next to him, cast in the gentle glow of the early morning sun."Good morning, my love," Aziraphale said, still stroking Crowley's hair."Morning, angel," he replied, voice thick with sleep.---Crowley takes Aziraphale out for the day and overhears a conversation that melts his heart a little. Just some pointless fluff to brighten your day.





	England's pleasant pastures seen

Crowley drifted into consciousness to the muted sounds of London morning traffic. He shifted a little on the old-fashioned down-filled mattress; he still wasn't entirely used to Aziraphale's bed, which was no where near as big or luxurious as the one in his own flat. But there were some perks to it, namely the warm body resting beside him. He smiled lazily as a hand ran through his hair, and he finally opened his golden eyes to look at Aziraphale lying next to him, cast in the gentle glow of the early morning sun.

"Good morning, my love," Aziraphale said, still stroking Crowley's hair.

"Morning, angel," he replied, voice thick with sleep.

It was still something of a novelty to let their feelings tumble out so freely. Aziraphale planted a kiss on Crowley's forehead and sat up, swinging his legs out over the edge of the bed. Cold air rushed in to fill the empty space next to Crowley, and it made him shudder. He watched Aziraphale casually miracle his pyjamas into his familiar daytime clothing, then reach into a pocket on his waistcoat to pull out a tartan tie. He always insisted that he put on his bowtie the human way, and Crowley loved to watch his clever hands at work.

"What are you doing with yourself today, dearest?" Aziraphale asked as he flicked the tie over his head and pulled it against the nape of his neck.

Crowley’s eyes traced the lines of Aziraphale's face in profile, delicately outlined in yellow-gold, eyes downturned in concentration, tips of his hair glowing in the sunlight. Not that long ago, Crowley would have only allowed himself a moment's glimpse of this, just long enough to imprint the image in his mind to recall later during a lonely night. With a contented sigh, he stretched and slithered across the bed to rest his head next to Aziraphale's thigh.

"Well I can think of something I'd like to do right now, but it does involve you getting back into bed."

Crowley could just about make out the arch of an eyebrow from this angle.

"As tempting as that may be," Aziraphale said with a grin, "I'm afraid I don't have time."

His manicured fingers pinched and pulled at the fabric of his tie, weaving it into a neat bow. Crowley propped himself up on his elbow, resting chin on hand, and furrowed his brow.

"Wait, where are you off to?"

Aziraphale let out a small noise of annoyance.

"Really, Crowley, we talked about it yesterday. There's a rare books collection near Reading, I managed to persuade the chief curator to let me take their illustrated version of _Salome_ off their hands." He paused, smiling the same bright smile Crowley usually only saw over a plate of pastries. "It will be just the ticket for my Wilde collection."

The conversation from the night before floated to the surface of Crowley's memory. He was fairly sure he could remember Aziraphale talking excitedly about something as they lay on the sofa in the back room, but he was also fairly sure he had not been listening to any of it. In his defense, it was incredibly difficult to concentrate on anything when he had his head in Aziraphale's lap. Alcohol may have also been involved.

"Oh right, yeah, sorry." Then after a moment, "_Persuade_?"

Aziraphale's back stiffened a little and he looked off to the side, away from Crowley.

"...Yes."

"You wouldn't have happened to use your angelic influence to procure a _book_, now, would you?"

Aziraphale let out a tired sigh as his shoulders sank a little.

"Oh, it's not like I'm stealing it, I've been providing them with some materials from my collection for their research. The curator _wanted_ to give me something in return anyway, I just... helped her to feel better about parting with something so exquisite, and stop _laughing_ at me, Crowley."

"I'm not laughing," replied Crowley, who had been unable to stop an amused smirk spreading across his face.

"You're as good as laughing. Anyway, I've not got time for this, I have about 13 minutes before I need to be at Paddington, and I don't want to turn up at Sindlesham looking like some kind of... layabout."

"Mm, yes, well that's definitely my first thought when someone turns up at my rare books collection with their bowtie slightly askew."

Aziraphale had evidently now decided to ignore Crowley's provocations, opting instead to fuss over some minor adjustments to his tie. Crowley flipped over onto his back and watched him. The thought of spending the day without Aziraphale sounded a little disappointing. In fact, it sounded downright _boring_.

"Why don't I drive you?" he asked.

Aziraphale's hands stilled, and he glanced down at Crowley, sprawled out ridiculously across the bed.

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure," Crowley drawled, "It's not that far." Then he quickly added, "And, _yes_ I'll use the human speed limits, don't look at me like that. Be a nice drive, I think."

Aziraphale twisted his torso to lean over Crowley, reaching out to cup the demon's cheek.

"Alright, that does sound nice," he said, a mischievous smile forming on his lips.

Aziraphale's hand slid down over cheekbone, throat, collar bone, until finally drawing a line gently down the middle of Crowley's exposed chest with his index finger. Crowley shivered at the playful touch.

"You _will_ have to put some clothes on, however."

Crowley grinned devilishly and grabbed Aziraphale's face with both hands, pulling him down for a quick kiss.

"Now that's unfortunate," he said, sitting up, "but I think I can manage."

He pushed himself out of bed and stood up, fully clothed and hair styled. He reached into the inside of his jacket, pulled out a pair of sunglasses, and flicked them onto his face in a single fluid motion.

"Right then, shall we?"

* * *

It was a British pastime to complain about the weather. It just wasn't small talk if no one uttered the phrase, "Terrible weather, this, eh?" As far as Crowley was concerned, the Brits had no idea how good they had it. It did not rain nearly as much as people thought it did. Admittedly, Crowley's benchmark for "lots of rain" was the Great Flood. But no one on this blessed island was building arks, which was a good start. And there were certainly plenty of downright lovely days, which was even better. Today was one of those lovely days. So, as the Bentley tore down the M4 under a cloudless sky, Crowley felt a smug satisfaction in both his dismissal of British meteorological concerns and his idea to take himself and Aziraphale for a drive.

He glanced to his left over his sunglasses at Aziraphale, sitting in the passenger seat and watching the English countryside blur past in quiet contentment. He sighed.

"It's beautiful outside of the city," Aziraphale said fondly, "I forget how much green there is out here."

"There's green bits in London," Crowley offered.

"I'm not sure it counts if you can still smell the car exhaust fumes."

"You don't think Blake meant Hyde Park when he was talking about England's pleasant pastures, then?"

Aziraphale chuckled.

"I'm fairly certain the entirety of Greater London falls under the purview of _dark Satanic Mills_."

Crowley smiled and turned his eyes back out towards the road in front of him. A comfortable silence settled inside the cabin of the Bentley. It wasn't that long ago that Crowley would have immediately jumped on trying to fill these moments with inane, nervous chatter, he reflected. It was a relief, after millennia of looking over their shoulders, to finally be able to simply enjoy each other's company. And they'd been enjoying it a _lot_ in the eight months since they'd saved the world. Their relationship had changed shape in that time, too. It had started with a hand brushing a knee in the car, or a head leaning against a shoulder after a bit too much wine. Then it was shy fingers entwined together while walking through the park, and chaste kisses after an evening out together. Before they'd known it, the two had settled into a pleasant routine that humans might call _dating_.

Crowley stole another sideways glance towards the passenger seat, where Aziraphale had returned to watching the world fly past them out the window. A swell of affection rippled through his chest.

"We should take a trip," he said. "A proper one, I mean. Go away for a little bit together."

Aziraphale turned his head to look at Crowley and cocked it to the side.

"Where did you have in mind?" he asked.

"Anywhere you like," Crowley replied. "Maybe Paris. Or Rome, been a while since we were there last."

Aziraphale’s brow knit together in the confused expression he often wore when thinking something over. Crowley's eyes flitted down to the dashboard of the car. He gritted his teeth when he realised the needle on the speedometer was hovering over 95 and eased up on the accelerator.

"Or... You know, we could just head over to Tadfield one weekend," he said as casually as he could muster.

"I imagine Italy is quite a different place from the last time either of us saw it," Aziraphale said with a thoughtful smile. "It would be lovely to go back and visit."

"Yeah, it would."

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale with a sardonic smile.

"I wonder if that Nero fella is still in charge?"

"Oh for goodness sake, I'd rather not be reminded of him."

Aziraphale proceeded to rant extensively about tyrannical Roman emperors as the Bentley sailed down the motorway under the late morning sun.

* * *

They pulled up in front of exactly the sort of building that Crowley would have pictured containing a rare books collection. It was an old stately home that now belonged to the National Trust, or English Heritage, or one of those sorts of organisations. It was another thing Aziraphale had likely mentioned last night while he was busy not paying attention. He parked the Bentley in the gravelly field that served as the car park, getting as close to the building as he could, right next to a sign that proclaimed it to be Sindlesham Hall. As he stepped out of the car, Crowley heard a voice calling out from the passenger side.

"Mr Fell, welcome! It's so good to meet you," said a woman that looked exactly like the sort of person Crowley would have pictured as the chief curator of a rare books collection.

She was smartly dressed, with short grey hair and a pair of square glasses perched on her nose. She was standing on the last step of the stone staircase at the front of the building, reaching a hand out towards an approaching Aziraphale.

"Dr Sykes, I presume," Aziraphale said, taking her hand briefly. "It's an honour, thank you ever so much for agreeing to see me."

Aziraphale beamed, kindness radiating out from him, and Dr Sykes smiled right back. Crowley had stopped a few steps behind Aziraphale, shoving his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, and was now realising he had drawn the attention of the curator, who was clearly having trouble parsing the travel companion of Mr Fell, Rare Books Collector. Crowley bristled involuntarily.

"Oh, and this is—Anthony," Aziraphale cut in, trying to smooth out his slight stutter.

Crowley smiled awkwardly and gave a short wave.

"Hiya."

"It's, ah, lovely to meet you, Anthony," Dr Sykes managed, clearly confused but still resolutely polite. "You can browse the museum if you like. We try and limit the number of people we allow in the library.” Then, in the grand English tradition of avoiding coming off as rude at all costs, she added hastily, “It's to preserve the books, you see, nothing personal."

Crowley shrugged casually.

"Oh, 's alright, a sacrifice I'm willing to make for the sake of the books."

Aziraphale shot him a look, and Crowley suppressed an impish grin. The angel took up conversation with Dr Sykes again, and Crowley followed the two of them up the worn stone stairs, through a set of ostentatiously heavy oak doors, and into a large open hall. Dr Sykes ushered Aziraphale towards a corridor labelled "Orangery and West Wing". The angel paused, excused himself and leaned in toward Crowley.

"I won't be long, dear," he said, nearly a whisper. Then he pointed an accusatory finger at him. "And be good."

Crowley put a hand to his chest in mock outrage.

"You wound me."

Aziraphale disappeared down the corridor, and Crowley was left to explore the museum.

It was nothing to write home about, especially for someone who had all the museums of London at their disposal. The displays were mostly about the history of the manor, glass cases full of the small personal effects of some boring old men who'd died centuries ago. He sauntered over to an obnoxiously tall portrait of a former Duke (or Baron, or Viscount, or some other equally baffling title) and stared up at the cracked oil painting. A familiar prickling sensation crept up the back of Crowley's head, cold and unwelcome. It was something he was well-accustomed to; the feeling of being watched. He craned his neck to the side and spotted an elderly couple standing next to a rack of pamphlets over by a wall, shooting him some rather scandalised looks. Crowley swallowed the growl that threatened to roll out of his throat. He briefly considered transforming into something horrible, or making it look like the painting had burst into flames. Then he remembered Aziraphale's plea and opted instead for a slightly unsettling smile. The pair at least had enough decency to look embarrassed that they'd been caught staring, and Crowley was briefly satisfied.

Eventually, he got bored of wandering around the handful of unremarkable artefacts. He collapsed into a bench next to the entrance of the West Wing, slouching with little to no regard for the workings of the human skeleton. His head rolled back to lean against the cold wall behind him. The elderly couple, he was sure, were still looking appalled that he'd been prowling around the place, and he had seen the guide sitting behind the tourist information desk staring at him too. He took in a deep breath and tried to push those pompous twats out of his mind. The place smelled like old wood and mildew, which meant it smelled exactly like the bookshop. And Aziraphale. Crowley decided to think about taking Aziraphale to Rome. He pictured taking him to dinner at a romantic restaurant, drinking coffee with him in some hidden cafe, perhaps finding somewhere to have oysters...

His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of voices drifting down the corridor next to him.

"I can't thank you enough," came Aziraphale's voice.

"Oh really, it's no bother," said Dr Sykes in a placating tone. "You’ve been so helpful with my research, it’s the least I could do."

Crowley started gathering his limbs into a less nonsensical configuration, readying himself to stand up.

"And besides, I'm confident I'm letting it go to good hands," the curator's voice continued. "If the state of that car you arrived in is anything to go by, you certainly know how to look after antiques."

"Hm? Oh, the Bentley!" came Aziraphale's response. "I'm afraid I can't take credit for that, it's my husband's car. Er, Anthony's, I mean." 

The words hit Crowley like a punch in the chest, knocking the wind out of him entirely and jolting him upright. He repeated the words in his own head.

_My husband's car._

"Oh," replied Dr Sykes, sounding startled. "Oh! You and Anthony—ah, I didn't realise. Well, he seems to know what he's doing."

Aziraphale chuckled.

"Yes, I'm convinced he loves the thing more than he loves me."

"Oh, I understand entirely, my wife is an art dealer, and trust me, if it was between me and the Gaugin, I know who she'd save in a fire."

The rest of the conversation was lost to Crowley. Everything else had faded into insignificance. His heart swelled, brimming with so much love and affection that he felt certain it would burst his chest wide open. His face was hurting, and Crowley belatedly registered that he'd been sitting there with a ridiculous smile plastered to his face for some time now. A sound halfway between a laugh and a sob fell from Crowley's lips as he realised what a sorry excuse of a demon he was right now. But he also realised that he wanted nothing more than to run into the middle of the hall and shout at the top of his lungs how much he loved his husband. His _husband_. Crowley drew in a breath, deciding that the best course of action was in fact to pull himself together before he did something exceptionally embarrassing.

Crowley dragged himself up from the bench and in front of the entrance to the corridor, just in time to see Aziraphale appear alongside Dr Sykes. He was holding a book-sized parcel to his chest, wrapped neatly in brown paper and twine. Crowley swore that the smile on the angel's face was lighting up the dingy hall.

"Oh, hello, Cr—Anthony," Aziraphale said, stopping in his tracks.

"Hello, angel," he replied brightly. He was sure he saw Dr Sykes smile a little wider.

Aziraphale turned to the curator to say his goodbyes.

"Thank you once again," he said. "And do keep in touch."

"Of course." Dr Sykes then looked to Crowley. "Safe travels back to London."

Crowley tipped his head in acknowledgement. He then turned on his heel and swung out his elbow towards Aziraphale.

"Shall we?"

Aziraphale froze momentarily before curling his hand around the crook of Crowley's arm.

"Oh, certainly."

The two of them walked side-by-side towards the door. Crowley looked back over his shoulder, at the elderly couple still pottering around the hall. He lifted his sunglasses with a finger and gave them both a cheery wink, feeling a guilty thrill at the dumbfounded looks on their faces. Once they were outside on the stoop of the manor, Crowley stopped and looked over at Aziraphale, into those ethereal blue eyes that had captivated him for thousands of years. His chest was aching by this point, and he was still smiling like an idiot. Aziraphale gave him a quizzical look before Crowley leaned in and kissed him on the lips.

"Goodness, you're in a far better mood than I thought I'd find you in," he said chuckling.

Crowley shrugged, the smile refusing to leave.

"What, is it so hard to believe that I might have enjoyed my morning in Sindlesham Hall Museum?"

"Incredibly so," Aziraphale replied.

"I'll have you know I learned a great deal about... some 18th century English nobleman... whose name eludes me."

"Yes, very convincing."

Crowley pressed his forehead to Aziraphale's, his expression becoming tender.

"And, y'know, I've just... enjoyed getting to spend some time with my _husband_."

Aziraphale pulled back from Crowley, eyes wide and owlish. He opened his mouth, managing only to splutter a few sounds.

"Your wha—oh. Oh, goodness, you heard what I said earlier."

At this point the angel had turned a delightful shade of pink. Crowley filed this moment away for later under _Make Fun of Aziraphale At More Opportune Moment_.

"I'm sorry, I'm not entirely sure why I said it," Aziraphale said sheepishly. "It just sort of... came out. There just didn't seem to be any other English word that fully described what you are to me. Or in any language, really."

The ache in Crowley's chest was becoming unbearable at this point.

"Angel, no, don't apologise. I... it was... lovely."

He leaned in to press another kiss onto his lips, slow and languid this time, trying to pour every ounce of that overflowing golden warmth into it.

"I love you," he said once he'd pulled free.

"Well that's very convenient, because I love you too," Aziraphale said, rubbing the tip of his nose against Crowley's.

Crowley drew in a steadying breath, pulled Aziraphale's arm close and began guiding the two of them down the steps of the building.

"Y'know, I'm in no rush to get back home," he mused. "What would you say to spending a bit more time in England's green and pleasant land?"

Aziraphale laughed, a sound that sent Crowley's heart soaring.

"I would say, that sounds marvelous," Aziraphale replied. An excited smile appeared on his face, one that Crowley recognised in an instant. "How about we find somewhere for lunch?"

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's arm at his side.

"Now how could I possibly say no to a date with my husband?"

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first time writing fiction in a very long time, so I hope you enjoyed it! If you would like to talk to me about Good Omens or these two idiots, please come say hi to me at heavens-bookshop.tumblr.com or at my main blog over on squidsticks.tumblr.com
> 
> Also, Sindlesham Hall isn’t a real place. There is a rare books collection in Reading (several, in fact), but I just made up some random place for the sake of the story.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[video podfic] England's pleasant pastures seen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25243273) by [ClassicHazel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicHazel/pseuds/ClassicHazel), [RhaegalKS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhaegalKS/pseuds/RhaegalKS)


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